The Great and Mighty
by Kundze Melna
Summary: Russia is famous not only for its bears, vodka and gas, but for its art. And art is an immense power.


Title: The Great and Mighty

Author: Kundze Melnā

Beta: none, unfortunately

Pairing: very vague Russia/Lithuania

Rating: PG

Summary: Russia is famous not only for its bears, vodka and gas, but for its art. And art is an immense power.

A/N: I did the original in Russian, but then I felt that it's one of my works dedicated to the pairing that I would particularly like to share with the Anglophone community. Yet there was a huge problem. I used the extracts from Vladimir Majakowski – a great poet of the Soviet era with a very unique style and rather complicated rhymes. A friend of mine believes that he is nothing less but the soul and the voice of Russia that he lived in, and many critics say the same, so I could not have ignored such a poet. There are, however, very few translations of his works into English. I found some French ones, but Majakowski and the French language just don't seem to get along. Thus I faced a rather difficult dilemma: whether to translate word for word, just to give the general sense of each extract, or whether to attempt a proper translation in order to try conveying the beauty and the power of his lyrics. The second option won, yet my skills of an interpreter are not particularly amazing, hence I beg you not to judge Majakowski very harshly, having read nothing of his except for my translations. He is indeed a genius of poetry, but I'm no match for him. I sincerely apologize for the weird layout of the lyrics. Honestly, I've tried lots of things to make the extracts look the same, but it just doesn't work.

If you are wondering about the title, I can only say that this is what Russian language is sometimes called amongst us. Surely we are very modest, da? =)

* * *

On the cold February evening Toris settled himself rather comfortably under the bear-skin and was watching idly the fire dancing inside the huge oven, that was so typical for any Russia house. Finally, he did not have to rush about preparing tea for Ivan. The latter was on the opposite side of the room, lying in bed, and so relaxed after the splendid New Year celebrations, that he wanted to drink no more.

Lithuania never minded the illusion of solitude, for when Ivan was inaudible and invisible to him, he could imagine getting up and leaving the place once and for all. Yet the idea was not a practical one: first of all, the blizzard outside the large house never stopped raging, and, secondly, Ivan would find him later and pull his ears, never ceasing to complain that no one loves him. Such scenes have always been hard for Toris: he would always find some compassion for Russia somewhere in his generous heart, despite wanting to get his freedom.

Had the circumstances been different, he would have, perhaps, wanted otherwise. It was not impossible to love Russia, but Lithuania found it hard, never forgetting that he had been forced to leave his own country and settle for the infernal coldness of the Russian winter. So he recalled a quote of one of his dear children. "_And our roads and forests whisper of lost paradise_," he recited to himself and a loud sigh left his lips. A too loud one, apparently.

"What are you thinking of, Liet?"

The calm voice of Russia came unexpected, but not unexpected enough to make Toris reveal all the truth.

"About poetry," he answered.

"Poetry is wonderful!" exclaimed Russia with a surprising amount of enthusiasm in his voice. "Lithuanian poetry, right? I've read some translations." he admitted, hesitating a tiny bit.

"Оooh!" was the only possible reply that Lithuania could come up with. For some reason, Russia reading the works of his poets, whether they'd been translated or not, was perceived as some kind of a mythological creature.

"To tell you the truth, I'm fond of art," added Braginsky, "of music, of painting, of literature. Would you like to hear a bit of Russian poetry? Just to make the evening more exciting."

Lithuania remarked that he had never received such an offer before. Actually, there was no harm in accepting: his illusion of solitude had been destroyed anyway. Besides, Russia could be rather inconsiderate: once he started talking, he expected others to listen to him until he became weary of giving speeches.

And so he nodded.

Ivan rose from the bed, stumbled across the floor with his bare feet (for such a heavily-built man his steps had always been surprisingly light), stopped in front of Lithuania and leant against the solid side of the oven. He then gave Toris a curious look and started without a foreword.

_Listen!_

_If the stars light up in the skies -_

_Than somebody needs them?_

_Somebody wants them to be there, to last?_

_Somebody praises the beauty of these dull bits? and_

_Struggling through the blizzards of midday dust,_

_Fearing that he's late, having come from so far,_

_Rushes to God, kisses his sinewy hand,_

_Asks him, begs him for a single star!_

"That is beautiful!" Toris whispered sincerely. "Who's the author?"

"Comrade Majakowski. He has only recently made his appearance in the Russian literature. Before I used to be very fond of Pushkin and Block, but tastes change over time."

"I see," concluded Lithuania, gazing at Russia who appeared even taller due to Toris sitting. "Will you read some more, please? You're doing it very well, I can sense the genuine feelings."

Russia was only too happy to comply. He frowned for a second, searching through the quotes that his memory held, trying to find the right one, then ruffled his blond hair, as if he was nervous.

"This is the one that Natasha quotes quite a lot."

_One loves or one doesn't? What's left? - twisting arms  
And scattering fractured fingers for miles,  
Like wondering lovers, who tear apart  
Petals of bright camomiles._

Lithuania sniffed with sadness, Now he knew where Belarus' inspiration came from.

"But leave it. I," continued Russia, "absolutely prefer this one. No one could have said any better."

_Hey!  
Gentlemen!  
Amateurs  
Of sacrilege,  
Carnage,  
And crime,  
Have you seen  
The terror of terrors –  
By face  
When  
I'm_

_Absolutely calm?_

Considering the way that the recited lines seemed to excite Russia to the point of a faint blush appearing on his cheeks, Lithuania agreed hastily. This wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last one. Besides, Toris knew like no other country that Russia was indeed thinking over the most dreadful plans with a light, almost unnoticeable smile. This Majakowski or whatever he was called knew what he was writing about.

"And here comes another one."

_But people,  
Those even that have offended,  
You are the closest ones to my heart!  
Have you  
Seen the dog licking the hand by which it's been hurt?_

"Do you, by any chance, know some lines about love?" Asked Toris who had acquired a rather disturbing suspicion that the already mentioned dog was nothing but a metaphor. He wondered briefly whether he was imagining things. Perhaps Ivan never meant to make a parallel, but Toris had heard the threats to send him to Siberia or to Kolchoz so many times, that his nerves were playing nasty tricks on him. The feeling of paranoia was perhaps to come within a short period of time.

"But I do!" exclaimed Ivan in a very cheerful manner. "Just listen to this one."

_Don't consider, frowning. Lots of_

_Hesitation only harms._

_Just come here to the crossroads_

_Of my huge and clumsy arms._

_Don't want it? Stay and wait for spring alone,_

_You've added yet one more to cruel insults._

_I swear, I shall take you after all -_

_Just you or you along with France, for instance._

Having finished, Braginsky caught his breath. He wished sincerely that these lines had been written in 1812, for had this been the case, he would have found the defeat of Napoleon rather ironic. The poem was indeed fabulous and inspiring, and Ivan was always trying to put all his heart into the recitation, so that the final lines would scream of passion that knows no boundaries and can raise feelings in every soul, however numb may it be. The masterpiece deserved no other ending.

He watched Toris, trying to understand whether he had liked the Soviet poetry. Lithuania was there with his quivering lips slightly ajar, his eyes of a completely bewildered person opened widely, and looking as if he had almost forgotten to breeze. Russia, being happy that his art had had such a powerful impact on Toris, gave an encouraging smile.

"I'm going to bed." He said. "By the way, I recommend that you take another bear-skin or blanket… Why on Earth do you all have to shiver?.. It must be the Baltic tradition or something…"

Lying under the blankets, Braginsky was considering giving Lithuania a lecture on other Russian poets. Perhaps on Pasternak or on Yesenin. The possibilities were too many, so he fell asleep gradually, without taking notice of it.

But Toris could not sleep. Having armed himself with a fork, he was peering into the darkness and waiting for Russia to come and keep his dreadful promise.

Russia, apparently, was taking his time, and this scared Lithuania even more.


End file.
